


Strange Bedfellows

by October_rust



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, M/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/730237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During King Robert's visit to Winterfell, Jon and Theon have to share a room and keep their tempers well in check.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Bedfellows

In the evening, the merrymaking commenced anew.

To celebrate the fifth day of the royal visit to Winterfell, kegs with summer wine were tapped, meat and fruit brought out, and drummers, pipers and fiddlers ordered to play one jaunty tune after another. Soon enough, the King's booming laughter was drowning out the loud music. The rowdier he grew, the more the Queen's beautiful face seemed akin to a mask carved of ice.

Seated at the lower table, Jon took note of those details, as well as many others, such as Greyjoy smiling at a raven-haired lady. When the pair shared a dance, and, afterwards, a slender hand was offered for a kiss, Jon almost rolled his eyes. All the generously poured wine was indeed strengthening the ties between the north and the south.

Not waiting for the courtship to unfold, he drained his cup, got up and headed for the door.

***

“Gods, are you learning that damned book by heart?”

 _In a way._ Uncle Benjen had suggested Jon should actually re-read _Conquest of Dorne,_ to remember well that glorious victories came at a high price, before they would ride for the Wall. The book did offer valuable insights about war campaigns, and, given King Daeron's ultimate fate, about the consequences of youthful impulsiveness. _Not that there will be much reading in peace tonight, though._

On the other hand, it could have been much worse. With so many guests staying at Winterfell, lesser and greater inconveniences were to be expected – and Greyjoy's company was simply that, a minor nuisance. Had Jon been born an heir to House Stark, he would now be sharing his room with Prince Joffrey. It was a fate he didn't envy Robb in the slightest.

The door clicked shut and Greyjoy was striding past Jon, a scowl on his face. _Ah. The lady didn't fall for your charms, I see._ Jon turned the page. There was a rustling of clothes, some splashing, muttered curses. 

“Say something, bastard.”

_Here we go again._ Spoiling for a fight just to soothe his wounded pride, with Jon as an excellent target to pour his frustration on. In some regards, Greyjoy was truly predictable. “What did she call you: a drunken pig or a randy goat?”

“Aren't you being clever, Snow.“ A boot hit the floor, then the other one was kicked off. “Neither. She was eager enough, but deathly afraid the Seven would not approve of our love. Love!” Greyjoy spat the last word in disgust.

“Yes, the horror,” Jon agreed.

“All I wanted was a good, quick fuck. Should have gone to Ros,” grumbled Greyjoy as he flopped down onto the bed. “No dancing, flowers, or flattery and she'll still give a man everything he needs.”

“Provided he's got a coin, that is. I doubt she'd suffer you if you didn't pay her.” 

“Really? As if you'd know anything about her or other women.” Greyjoy's lip curled into a sneer. “She'd prefer me to your fumbling and stuttering even if I were a beggar and you a king.”

“Believe that if it cheers you up.” Jon shrugged.

But Greyjoy wasn't finished. “Snow, you'd seen her naked and fled. No red-blooded man would've done that.”

“And no good man would've bought her like chattel, and bedded her,” Jon shot back.

“You didn't seem to mind money changing hands when I took you to the brothel.” Greyjoy's voice dripped with contempt. “So spare me your noble outrage. Want to be her knight? Fine, go and offer her marriage. Then watch her laugh in your face.”

The barb struck uncannily close to the mark. Except Ros hadn't mocked him, even as she'd refused his drunken proposal. “How sweet,” she'd said, cradling his cheek and kissing him lightly goodbye. Ever since that one-time, disastrous visit, Jon had treasured the memory, both of her soft lips, and the mischievous spark in her eyes.

Those were the only good things to have come from the bet Greyjoy had tricked him into accepting. _And memories and dreams they will stay._ A sworn brother of the Night's Watch was pledged to serve the realm, not indulge his weaknesses. 

_Two weeks. That's how long I'll have to bear with him,_ Jon reminded himself, quelling the surge of anger. All the same, he couldn't resist one last dig at Greyjoy. 

“Maybe she'd think me a fool,” he said. “But she sure would laugh all the more if you promised to take her to Pyke and make her your saltwife.”

It was deeply satisfying to watch Greyjoy's stunned face. _Had he really considered the idea?_ Quickly, the shock was suppressed, the features arranged into a neutral expression, but it was too late. _He had._

“Take heart, Greyjoy.” Jon twisted the knife. “You can always get down on your knees and beg her to come with you. See how that works.”

“Bugger off, Snow.”

“That's pathetic, even by your standards, Greyjoy.”

No retort followed, which gave Jon a certain amount of satisfaction. _Silence at last._ He leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs out, and returned to the book. _Damned if I ever cower before you, Greyjoy._

***

Still, at some point Jon's eyes began to close, and the bed, though occupied by one infuriating ass, started to look more inviting with each passing moment.

Stifling a yawn, Jon put the leather-bound tome aside, and rose from the chair. The drowsiness ebbed away a bit as soon as he stripped down to his smallclothes and washed in the cold water. About to blow out the last candle, however, he paused, frowning. An odd sensation, as though he was being watched, prickled at his skin.

Sure enough, Greyjoy's eyes glinted in the semi-darkness. Some stray bead of water clung to Jon's neck; agonizingly slow, it glided down, stopped briefly at the hollow between the collarbones, and then resumed its lazy progress across the planes of his chest. All the while Greyjoy did not blink once, his gaze fastened on the wet pattern glistening on naked skin. Heat rushing to his cheeks, Jon fought the absurd urge to cover himself.

“What?”

“Nothing, Snow. You just have that ridiculous look on your face. I cannot decide which you resemble more – a prim septa or a village halfwit.”

“Gods, you're still drunk.” Fortunately, the strange spell was broken, and Jon quickly snuffed out the candle. “Move over, Greyjoy.”

Once all the shifting and cursing was done, they settled into relatively comfortable positions. Logs glowed faintly in the hearth, the room was pleasantly warm, the furs soft, but sleep would not claim Jon. Instead, he stared at the shadows dancing on the rafters. _A month or so, and I'll be ranging with Uncle Benjen._ The prospect still seemed as unreal and distant as the battles described by a long-dead Targaryen king. 

“Seriously, you should have put a sword between us if you fear for your virtue.”

Started from his thoughts, Jon turned his head towards Greyjoy. “Very funny.”

“It is, though. If a wench so much as looks at you, you bolt. Cannot get more pure – or idiotic – than that.” 

“At least I'm not being slapped or called a pig. Most women aren't too taken with you, Greyjoy.”

“Oh, but are they that impressed with you?” Greyjoy's voice floated closer. “I don't think so. You say all the pretty words, like a good little boy that you are. But you know what? Women have no need for gallant boys. They want real men, Snow.”

_So we're back to Ros, beggars and kings._ “And you're the real man, Greyjoy? Don't make me laugh.”

“Says the quivering virgin, too scared to touch a woman.”

“I'm not scared, I just ...”

“Like cocks better?”

Jon inhaled deeply, yet before he could utter one angry word, Greyjoy's palm stroked lightly across his stomach. He froze, muscles bunching in an involuntary response, when the fingertips slid lower to brush his hipbone. A challenge and a subtle threat.

“Pity you're not a wench,” Greyjoy whispered. “But if you ask me nicely, I'll make an exception. I can teach you ...”

“Try it, and I'll fetch a blade and teach you how to keep your hands to yourself.” 

“A prim septa.” Greyjoy snorted as he moved away. “All right, a bloodthirsty septa, I'll give you that.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Jon rolled onto his side, pulled the furs over himself, and closed his eyes. _Best ignore the fool, else I end up strangling him._ He imagined himself, clad in black, watching the frozen wasteland from atop the Wall. _Just two weeks, and, if Gods are good, I'll never have to see him again._

*** 

Sunlight glinted off the polished helms, breastplates, pauldrons. Above, banners were fluttering in the light breeze, their blacks and reds contrasting sharply with the barren landscape.

He rode to the front of the column and reined in his horse. A narrow path lay ahead, almost lost amongst jagged rocks, pebbles and patches of yellowed grass. For centuries, only herds of goats had wandered along this track; now, it was going to be travelled upon by knights, men-at-arms, archers and footsoldiers.

One obstacle was blocking the march, however. A large goat, big-horned and covered in knotted hair, was staring at the assembled troops. From rank to rank, the strange yellow gaze flitted, drawn briefly by the flashes of steel, till it fixed on him – the one clad in the most magnificent armour, the one commanding the host. 

“Robb,” the goat sighed. “Gods, how I want you.”

_What?_

Jon's eyes cracked open. The brightness of the day dimmed to a mere fire glow; he was in his bed, not with Daeron's army preparing to cross the Red Mountains. Then, more details registered – an arm draped over his waist, and … lips kissing the nape of his neck?

“Robb.”

His brother's name sobered him up in an instant. Whatever it was, a stupid prank, or, worse still, a genuine mistake, had to be ended. But as Jon made to disentangle himself, he was unceremoniously pulled back against Greyjoy's chest.

“Let go, idiot,” Jon hissed. The protest, though, fell on deaf ears. Kisses became more insistent, the movements of the hips more restless. _No jape, then._

All of a sudden, the situation got truly dire: Jon found himself on his back, with Greyjoy looming over him. In such proximity, it was impossible for Jon to ignore the heat of Greyjoy's skin, the pounding of the heart against his own, the puffs of deep, steadying breaths on his cheek. As Greyjoy shifted a bit, the next exhalation gusted over Jon's lips. 

_Push him away, move ..._ But he could neither force his body to obey, nor prevent his pulse from beating faster. _Surely he won't ..._

Fortunately, a fist to the ribs sufficed to rouse Greyjoy from the dream. “What the –“

That was as far as he got, before the full extent of the disaster about to happen made itself known. A choked oath escaping him, Greyjoy jerked away so abruptly, he almost landed on the floor. “Snow? Gods, I ...”

He floundered for words, while Jon waited, not lending any assistance. A dose of mortification and helplessness served Greyjoy right for that one lingering look, the fingers on Jon's hip, the unwelcome rush of blood. “It's not ...” Greyjoy swallowed. “I'm not ...”

And, as though reading Jon's mind, he blurted, “That thing about teaching you … I was jesting, Snow. I would never … Oh, shit.” A desperate note crept into his voice “Look, it was just a mishap. All that talk about Ros got me hungry for her and –”

Jon cut him off. “It wasn't her that you called. It was Robb.”

No fierce denials; instead, Greyjoy went so utterly still, his flesh might as well have turned into stone. Charged and icy, the silence was then allowed to grow, tendril upon choking tendril. 

At last, Greyjoy exhaled slowly. “Well,” he muttered. “What a splendid treat for you, isn't it, Snow?”

The words were as much a bitter admission of defeat, as well as a plea for mercy. _Don't venture further. Don't ask._ One little push, and that fragile barrier would be breached, exposing a wealth of deeply-buried secrets.

The unspoken warning hung heavy in the air, yet Jon had an urge to press on regardless. Yes, the vengeful part of him wanted to deliver another blow, to revel in the suffering of the vanquished enemy. _Suffering?_ That brought him up short. Trading barbs, even such acerbic ones as those about Ros, was one thing, but this … 

“Hardly a treat,” he said, keeping his tone impassive. “I couldn't care less about your stupid dreams.”

He folded an arm beneath his head, closed his eyes. Next to him, he could feel tension drain away from Greyjoy's body.

*** 

In the morning, neither of them mentioned anything about the incident. Still, throughout the day, Grejoy's gaze would flicker to Jon, as if to confirm that something had irrevocably changed between the two of them.

And, as Jon met his eyes, he couldn't help but think about all the duels they'd fought with blunted swords. Waiting for the best moment to strike, gauging your opponent's mettle, while blood was pumping hard through the veins. 

_He has a debt to settle,_ Jon realized. _And doesn't like it one whit._

He stared back at Greyjoy, unflinching. _Come, then. We've got two whole weeks to untangle this mess._

A thrill – part apprehension, part anticipation – ran down his spine when Greyjoy gave a small nod.


End file.
